requently for fear that I should offend him."
And then, by degrees, there was confidence between them, and the
poverty-stricken helpmate of the perpetual curate was able to speak
of the weight of her burden to the well-to-do young wife of the
Barchester prebendary. "It was hard," the former said, "to feel
herself so different from the wives of other clergymen around her--to
know that they lived softly, while she, with all the work of her
hands, and unceasing struggle of her energies, could hardly manage to
place wholesome food before her husband and children. It was a
terrible thing--a grievous thing to think of, that all the work of
her mind should be given up to such subjects as these. But,
nevertheless, she could bear it," she said, "as long as he would
carry himself like a man, and face his lot boldly before the world."
And then she told how he had been better there at Hogglestock than in
their former residence down in Cornwall, and in warm language she
expressed her thanks to the friend who had done so much for them.
"Mrs. Arabin told me that she was so anxious you should go to them,"
said Mrs. Robarts.

"Ah, yes; but that, I fear, is impossible. The children, you know,
Mrs. Robarts."

"I would take care of two of them for you."

"Oh, no; I could not punish you for your goodness in that way. But he
would not go. He could go and leave me at home. Sometimes I have
thought that it might be so, and I have done all in my power to
persuade him. I have told him that if he could mix once more with the
world, with the clerical world, you know, that he would be better
fitted for the performance of his own duties. But he answers me
angrily, that it is impossible--that his coat is not fit for the
dean's table," and Mrs. Crawley almost blushed as she spoke of such a
reason.

"What! with an old friend like Dr. Arabin? Surely that must be
nonsense."

"I know that it is. The dean would be glad to see him with any coat.
But the fact is that he cannot bear to enter the house of a rich man
unless his duty calls him there."

"But surely that is a mistake?"

"It is a mistake. But what can I do? I fear that he regards the rich
as his enemies. He is pining for the solace of some friend to whom he
could talk--for some equal, with a mind educated like his own, to
whose thoughts he could listen, and to whom he could speak his own
thoughts. But such a friend must be equal, not only in mind, but in
purse; and where can he ever find